Herculean

May 18, 2009 § Leave a comment

Nobody knows.
It didn’t make the news. They left no artifacts.
They didn’t live to tell the tale, or were considered unremarkable
at the time.

The exhibitionist on the bridge,
The other robbery,
The haunting melody,
The courageous village
and the father of three —

All buried under nothingness,
swallowed by forgetfulness,
Nobody’s cautionary tale. Nobody’s allegory.

But if I’m quiet —
If I open my hands, and listen,
My heart flashes.

Like recalling where the exit was, having passed it just a moment ago;
Like looking down a hurricane, gazing into its white funnel,
I am reading the Chronicle,
Singing with Troubadours,
Reported and reporting on the Network News.

Everything is everything and I don’t wish to smooth it,
Only to infuse it
With the knowledge of its own unpublished grace—
A memory of the gift it gave itself.

May 2009
Revision of the original, written June 2007

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

What’s this?

You are currently reading Herculean at Poems.

meta

%d bloggers like this: